Of Dismal Odds And Nicotine Withdrawals
by CassandraHolly
Summary: 'Apparently I was in the bathroom when God handed out the Favoured Odds.' Cassandra Cirque, the Mayor's daughter, is the 68th girl Tribute from District 1. As far as she's concerned, the lack of Marlboro Golds will kill her before the other kids do. At any rate the Capitol wasn't prepared for a doomed girl with, as she so delicately puts it, 'very few fucks to give.'
1. Chapter 1

"Cassandra Cirque."

I was amazed.

We were all amazed.

It was amazing, that's why.

Daughter of the Mayor of District One, reaped for the 68th Hunger Games? What a laugh. What a turn of events. What a _set up._

I knew it, and my mother knew it, which is why she promptly flipped shit and started screaming. The Peacekeepers, excited at actually having something to do, pounced in and dragged her off while everyone stared at me as if I had two heads. Which I might have done. I mean, obviously nothing was going in my favor today, so the sudden growth of another head wouldn't be such an out-of-the-blue occurrence. Only as out-of-the-blue, in fact, as the richest fifteen year old in all of the Districts being reaped.

So what do you do in a situation such as this? I don't reckon there's a correct etiquette but either way I slapped a smile on my face and strolled up to the stage as if I hadn't a care in the world. Which I hadn't. It wasn't like my death had just been announced, or anything.

Maria Ingot, the escort and announcer of my fate, stared at me in barely concealed shock as I took my place next to her. I gazed back, wondering what kind of small animal she had used as an eyeshadow brush this morning, until she looked away.

The boy Tribute was announced, everyone clapped, we were hustled away, yada dada dada. Exactly the same as every year.. with a small difference.

District One's girl Tribute had a worth of roughly $9,700.

Apparently I was in the bathroom when God handed out the Favored Odds.

* * *

My father knew better than to try and argue. I say that, but in reality he didn't want to draw negative attention to himself, what with him treasuring his big house more than me. My mother went hysterical banshee on my ass, and I eventually yelled at the Peacekeepers to drag her out. We never got along much anyway. She had too much of a taste for the bubbly stuff. I had been taking care of her drunken needs since I was seven.

I had a line of friends come to see me off, and they all played me the same tape: 'How did this happen? OhmaGaaah, this is, like, SO unexpected! We'll miss you... I mean, until you get back, yeah? You'll deffo win!'

Yeah, okay. Rave on.

After half an hour of goodbyes that just served to make me more eager to get to the Capitol already, I was lead to a train with 'District 1' painted on the side. Just in case I forget? I was so busy rolling my eyes at this particular piece of utter crap that I barely realized my mentors were watching me from matching chairs.

Cashmere and Gloss.

See, I might be in possession of a one- way ticket to God's pad, but things could be worse. At least I wasn't called Sparkle.

They started by grilling me on my fighting abilities. "What can you do?"

Um, I can blind them with my wit?

Cripple them with my good looks?

Suffocate them with the second hand smoke off of my Marlboro Golds?

"I... can skip backwards."

They didn't look too impressed. Maybe I should have mentioned my gymnastics medals, or my kickboxing training?

Well, whatever. They'll find out about the latter if they try waking me up before ten AM, I guess.

The quality of our relationship just went downhill from there. They, assuming I was dead meat anyways, didn't bother sweet- talking me, as there was no way my father would hear about anything they said. Instead they focused on my fellow Tribute, an impressively greasy looking boy going by the name of Juke. He turned out to be an eighteen year old skin- bag of sleazy attitude and unpleasant smells.

Unsurprisingly, our mentors gave up on us before they even had a chance to start.

"The odds," I said kindly, "Really aren't in your favor this year, are they?"

If looks could kill, I would have been out cold on the furry carpet with my intestines wrapped around my neck. Luckily, they didn't try anything physically harmful to me. I don't think I would have survived in a fight against Wool and Glisten- oops, sorry, Cashmere and Gloss.

I went and stood by the window for a reviving cigarette, realised I wasn't allowed to smoke in the arena, and promptly burst in to tears.

And that's how the beginning of the end of my life started.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing I did when I reached the Capitol was launch myself into the waiting crowd. The Peacekeepers didn't know what to do with this, and while they dithered around like dithering things on dither pills, I bobbed up next to an elderly woman with yellow teeth.  
'Cigarette for the future Victor?' I said, with what I hoped was a winning smile. Apparently it was more terrifying- she gave a shriek and lobbed a box of Mal Pals at my face- but then she grasped me in a huge hug.  
Okay. Obviously the Capitol doesn't cover personal space bubbles.  
The peacekeepers caught up to me at this point. While they lugged me unceremoniously to the waiting limo, I stuffed the fags in my bra and blew a kiss to the woman.  
She fainted.  
Whoops.

My first day in the Capitol was a nightmare of face- painted women prancing around with various tools of torture.  
Incidentally, did you know black is the new black? I had _no idea_ fashion was so cryptic.  
They didn't know what to do with me, that much was obvious. To start with, what fifteen year old _doesn't_ wax her legs and wash her hair? Unlike the other tributes I was practically a walking hygiene poster in the first place; my stylists had to settle for giving me a manicure. At least we can count on the best of us to paint Panem out of a post-rebellion crisis.  
'We'll give you a nice french manicure for now, just until your outfit is confirmed. Then we'll do something really special!'  
And they're getting paid how much?

My stylist and I have a unique bond.

I give her a 'perfect' body to dress up, and she gives me a lighter.

"But you know smoking is completely illegal for you from the point you entered the Capitol. I'm going out on a limb here."

"What am I going to do, kill the other Tributes with second-hand smoke induced lung cancer?"

"Surely quitting cold turkey will give you an edge. You'll be ruthless and furious."

I considered this. "Or I'll fling myself off a cliff."

"There's always that."

The chariot ride was amusing. Juke, the missing link between human beings and your average squid, spent the whole time posing while staring at his own face on the screens. It's a miracle in itself that he didn't faint from horror at seeing his own mug so big and drop out of the side of the chariot to be crushed by District 2's horses.

Or a huge disappointment, depending on how you look at it.

In a rare moment of sanity, Gloss suggested I go for the 'sarcastic bitch' approach. Inkeeping with this sound advice, I flipped an over- eager Capitol citizen the one- fingered salute after he lobbed a condom at my face.

I fear that my stylist was treading into the Valley of the Truly Insane when she designed my dress. Obviously, she assumed I would come complete with a full set of shoulder- boulders capable of filling any low- cut dress, like the past District 1 tributes. What she _didn't_ see coming was me... or rather, the lack of me where there should have been me.

To put it bluntly, filling a B- cup is a dream more far off to me than winning the Games. Hence my suspicion that my prep team had endorsed in a shit ton of alcohol before they clad me in a low cut minidress in an attempt to gain some admiring fans.

The only redeeming feature was my hair- it's always been long and ash- coloured, and they left it down after I persuaded them not to try and curl it. My hair is an area of daily struggle for me. Try and attack it with curlers and you end up with a two foot afro.

The interview was, according to Cashmere, a facsimile of a sham.

Well, actually they referred to it as 'over the top' in reference to my couldn't-care-less approach. What they fail to realise is that this isn't put on for the cameras. If any man came up to me on an average day and asked me what my strategies of staying alive were, I would always answer 'don't die'.

In an ideal world, there would be no asshat asking dumber than dumb questions like that.

Of course, in an ideal world, I would be a few hundred miles away from the Capitol, living in a town in which it was considered rude _not _to smoke yourself into an early grave.

But everybody on my team was happy about one thing. I say happy, they were ecstatic. It was almost like being in a room with a crowd of excited mice, they were squeaking so much.

What made them so giddy, I hear you ask?

I lit up a fag in my interview, that's what.

I have to say, I didn't think the Capitol would go quite so wild for it. When they finally stopped cheering, about fifty million Marlboros were lit up and smoked in something of a companionable, completely illegal celebration. It made me the rebel, the girl to watch out for, the bad ass.

In reality, it made me less inclined to tear someone's throat out, but that works too.

I was given an Official Warning by the Peacekeepers. One more rule broken and I can consider myself, in a nutshell, up shit creek without a paddle.

Let's just put aside that I'm a fifteen year old Tribute with an estimated life span of about a week, shall we?


End file.
